Sunday, July 14, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Bleeding Heart
Back to the Suburban Grind: Bleeding Heart: My children are small. Very small. Small enough that outside of rules about recycling and energy conservation, stories about the holidays ...
Bleeding Heart
My children are small. Very small. Small enough that outside of rules about recycling and energy conservation, stories about the holidays that cover just the basic "facts" and themes, news about the weather, and public interest stories about animals and the pool opening for summer, they are blissfully ignorant and detached from news of the world. I am thankful for that today. Though we talk casually about children in the world who are not as fortunate as they, who do not have the freedoms, rights, and more specifically (and frequently), toys and birthday parties that they have, their minds are not burdened with the state of the world. They will learn soon enough. I will lead them to a place of understanding, of compassion, and as important, what I think is often missing in the lessons that we parents offer our children, that none of us is more important or more valuable or more special than anyone else. Truly.
But this lesson is easily taught by me to my children. It was taught to me by my parents in as much what they did as what they said. And it was surely taught to them by their parents. When you are black in America, that message comes in loud and clear. We were taught that we had to be twice as good, told to mind our p's and q's, to watch and wait before entering a group, take the temperature, find out if the members of that group were amenable to our presence. Even if we knew that what we would bring to that group--talent, intelligence, humor, compassion, kindness--would greatly benefit, we entered with caution. We were, clichéd as it sounds, outsiders. Without being told this directly, I took it also to mean that I was never enough, didn't quite measure up, and probably never would.
My children know their gifts and know they are special to me. I try to instill it in them every day, but they surely do not believe that they deserve more in this world than anyone else. They are learning that we must lift each other up to rise, that we must all rise together, not climb on others' backs or blindly soar while others are pedaling or flapping their wings underfoot. The wind beneath their wings is my love and support, not a system that propels them to the top while others languish in the decks below. They know this because I am teaching this to them.
My parents, I can see it now, are insanely intelligent and exceptional people. They are both smart and funny and witty and caring and giving, having been raised by fierce, God-loving, trusting, good people. They are exceptional, but are not the exception. We knew so many other black families like ours. Saw success and drive, intelligence and creativity, humor and wit. When we were all together, everyone could breathe a little easier, relax into our true selves, let our spirits soar, because the defining character of ourselves outside that group, our race, could be ignored. We could be real, three-dimensional people with hopes and dreams and desires that could be acknowledged and considered. But outside of that group, of that safety net, we just weren't sure where we stood with people. We had so many wonderful friends from different backgrounds, people who shared themselves with us and allowed us to do the same. Who truly judged us and all minorities by the content of our character. But there were also others with whom we spent time at church or school or on sports teams or dance classes who wouldn't acknowledge us outside of our activities or used derogatory language about blacks and other minorities in our presence with the disclaimer, "but I don't mean you."
Oh, but you do. And they did even if they'd convinced themselves that there was a different place for this black face, this black person. They had a space for other and it was outside of their circle. Sure there are criminals flaunted on the local news daily. Those are people to be feared no matter their background (though a disproportionate number of those shown on local news are people of color as it helps to continue that narrative) but the rest of us are just normal citizens going about our daily lives. We want what's best for our children, want to shape them to be the kind of people we want to be, want to see them have greater opportunity and success than we've had. Verdicts like this one just handed down in the Trayvon Martin case remind us that we are still outside the circle.
My bleeding heart. My "excessive" sympathy can, at times, leave me speechless, immobile, frozen in an emotional coma where the feelings rage inside the cocoon but on the outside I stand in fear. I cannot do this and still take care of my children. I have to get up and prepare breakfast and make beds and plan the day. I still weep this morning for that young man being followed by a stranger in a neighborhood where he should have, like everyone else there, felt safe. There was, after all, a neighborhood watch. But the neighborhood watchman was watching him, checking for him, had written him outside the circle and pursued him, against police suggestion, and all of his hopes and dreams and desires died with him. We won't even know them.
None of us is more special, more important, more valuable than any other. And none of us is less so. In our spiritual core, in our hearts, in the part of us that is within our human selves but is not constrained by it, we know this. But in the part where we are but mere human beings, in the part where we jockey for self-importance and relevancy, we don't believe it. Can't. In our keeping-up-with-the-Joneses/Kardashians/1% culture, where racism and discrimination burden the pursuit of happiness, where the "going for mine" and "doin' me" mentality reigns, teaching compassion and love and empathy is a serious endeavor but one we must all attempt or risk an epic failure.
There is room enough for us all in the circle. God I hope so. And any loss suffered by any one of us should be felt by all. The girls woke me this morning with kicks to the knees and ribs as they jockeyed for prime snuggling position. They kissed my face even before I'd opened my eyes and whispered good morning before they knew whether I was asleep or awake. They didn't know I'd cried all night and wouldn't. It's not theirs to bear right now. It is mine. Though I stood up and was not able to clear the fog of the news of last night's verdict from my mind, my heart still fluttered for them. It raged. Their warm, little bodies jolted me back to my real life. The life where I care for them and raise them and teach them how we must love one another. My heart also bleeds for the mother who cannot hold her son, the mothers who cannot hold their children, cannot feel their warm bodies, be jolted out of bed by their promise, be comforted by the hope that their dreams and desires provide. It bleeds because if we are all part of the same circle, what's mine is yours and we are one and the same. And today I feel, again, that mother's emptiness.
RIP Trayvon Martin.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
But this lesson is easily taught by me to my children. It was taught to me by my parents in as much what they did as what they said. And it was surely taught to them by their parents. When you are black in America, that message comes in loud and clear. We were taught that we had to be twice as good, told to mind our p's and q's, to watch and wait before entering a group, take the temperature, find out if the members of that group were amenable to our presence. Even if we knew that what we would bring to that group--talent, intelligence, humor, compassion, kindness--would greatly benefit, we entered with caution. We were, clichéd as it sounds, outsiders. Without being told this directly, I took it also to mean that I was never enough, didn't quite measure up, and probably never would.
My children know their gifts and know they are special to me. I try to instill it in them every day, but they surely do not believe that they deserve more in this world than anyone else. They are learning that we must lift each other up to rise, that we must all rise together, not climb on others' backs or blindly soar while others are pedaling or flapping their wings underfoot. The wind beneath their wings is my love and support, not a system that propels them to the top while others languish in the decks below. They know this because I am teaching this to them.
My parents, I can see it now, are insanely intelligent and exceptional people. They are both smart and funny and witty and caring and giving, having been raised by fierce, God-loving, trusting, good people. They are exceptional, but are not the exception. We knew so many other black families like ours. Saw success and drive, intelligence and creativity, humor and wit. When we were all together, everyone could breathe a little easier, relax into our true selves, let our spirits soar, because the defining character of ourselves outside that group, our race, could be ignored. We could be real, three-dimensional people with hopes and dreams and desires that could be acknowledged and considered. But outside of that group, of that safety net, we just weren't sure where we stood with people. We had so many wonderful friends from different backgrounds, people who shared themselves with us and allowed us to do the same. Who truly judged us and all minorities by the content of our character. But there were also others with whom we spent time at church or school or on sports teams or dance classes who wouldn't acknowledge us outside of our activities or used derogatory language about blacks and other minorities in our presence with the disclaimer, "but I don't mean you."
Oh, but you do. And they did even if they'd convinced themselves that there was a different place for this black face, this black person. They had a space for other and it was outside of their circle. Sure there are criminals flaunted on the local news daily. Those are people to be feared no matter their background (though a disproportionate number of those shown on local news are people of color as it helps to continue that narrative) but the rest of us are just normal citizens going about our daily lives. We want what's best for our children, want to shape them to be the kind of people we want to be, want to see them have greater opportunity and success than we've had. Verdicts like this one just handed down in the Trayvon Martin case remind us that we are still outside the circle.
My bleeding heart. My "excessive" sympathy can, at times, leave me speechless, immobile, frozen in an emotional coma where the feelings rage inside the cocoon but on the outside I stand in fear. I cannot do this and still take care of my children. I have to get up and prepare breakfast and make beds and plan the day. I still weep this morning for that young man being followed by a stranger in a neighborhood where he should have, like everyone else there, felt safe. There was, after all, a neighborhood watch. But the neighborhood watchman was watching him, checking for him, had written him outside the circle and pursued him, against police suggestion, and all of his hopes and dreams and desires died with him. We won't even know them.
None of us is more special, more important, more valuable than any other. And none of us is less so. In our spiritual core, in our hearts, in the part of us that is within our human selves but is not constrained by it, we know this. But in the part where we are but mere human beings, in the part where we jockey for self-importance and relevancy, we don't believe it. Can't. In our keeping-up-with-the-Joneses/Kardashians/1% culture, where racism and discrimination burden the pursuit of happiness, where the "going for mine" and "doin' me" mentality reigns, teaching compassion and love and empathy is a serious endeavor but one we must all attempt or risk an epic failure.
There is room enough for us all in the circle. God I hope so. And any loss suffered by any one of us should be felt by all. The girls woke me this morning with kicks to the knees and ribs as they jockeyed for prime snuggling position. They kissed my face even before I'd opened my eyes and whispered good morning before they knew whether I was asleep or awake. They didn't know I'd cried all night and wouldn't. It's not theirs to bear right now. It is mine. Though I stood up and was not able to clear the fog of the news of last night's verdict from my mind, my heart still fluttered for them. It raged. Their warm, little bodies jolted me back to my real life. The life where I care for them and raise them and teach them how we must love one another. My heart also bleeds for the mother who cannot hold her son, the mothers who cannot hold their children, cannot feel their warm bodies, be jolted out of bed by their promise, be comforted by the hope that their dreams and desires provide. It bleeds because if we are all part of the same circle, what's mine is yours and we are one and the same. And today I feel, again, that mother's emptiness.
RIP Trayvon Martin.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: It Takes a Village
Back to the Suburban Grind: It Takes a Village: Lily woke up in the middle of the night with a fever boiling through her bloodstream. I knew because she was snuggled up next to me and I f...
It Takes a Village
Lily woke up in the middle of the night with a fever boiling through her bloodstream. I knew because she was snuggled up next to me and I felt my own blood start to simmer until I realized that she was tucked in the crook of my arm. I touched her head, put my hand on her rising belly and she was on fire. I reached for her little sister on the other side of me and she, thankfully, did not feel the same. She turned over to avoid my handling of her little body and I tended to her big sister. That was the first night.
The next evening, antibiotics in hand for the raging ear infection that was plaguing my girl, we tried again. Lily on my right and Virginie on my left. Everyone tucked in and medicated or whatever was needed to allow a comfortable night's sleep and healing. We made it to 3 AM. At 3 AM, Virginie started wheezing as if she'd swallowed a balloon. She could not seem to take a full breath without this full, croupy cough taking over her tiny body. She would cough and tremble and cry, all while trying to fall back to sleep. I offered her inhaler every fifteen minutes until she could breath easier. Unfortunately, her coughing woke Lily who began pulling at one of her ears, coughing herself, and complaining of pain. For her there were pain killers and a back rub. In fact, with each one sandwiching me into the middle of the bed, I rubbed and patted them, arms outstretched, until 5 AM when I heard the last labored breath subside to soft, even whistles. Then I slept.
I've spent countless nights alone with the girls and most nights they are well, though often chatty and wake in the night. When they are sick or scared or in need, I am available for them too, will take care of what needs caring for until it is right. The good days greatly surpass the bad, but the bad ones fuel the fuzzy-brained, rain-clouded, barbed-wire pressured, and angst-filled stories of parenthood. Those nights leave me feeling so low and lonely, mostly because I am sleep deprived and insane (JEG, you know who you are), like I don't have a prayer or a hand or a friend.
This morning, my neighbor offered to take the girls for a while to play with her children. She and her husband had run their errands and handled their business and knew that I was alone for the long, holiday weekend with the girls. I tried to bow out, excuse myself, convince her that it wasn't necessary, that the girls were fine with crazy me. Though I have longed for a community, a tribe, a village to help me raise my children, I don't think I ever considered what I was really asking for. It wasn't something mythic, epic, poetic, romantic. It wasn't only a dream or an expression used in speeches when children had again been marginalized or ignored. For me, it was having someone that I trusted and that I knew cared for me and my children, take them for a bit. Nurture them. Feed them. Play with them. Entertain them. So that I might have a moment to regenerate, take a shower without a guest lecturer present, hell use the bathroom without having a conversation about only God knows what with a person sitting one foot in front of me. On the floor.
I let the girls go for a bit when a friend called requesting Virginie, the four year old. My friend's four year old was down for a full afternoon of play that involved multiple costume changes, a bath, coloring, a trip to the pool, all the cool stuff the pre-K set is into. She went. She stayed. I saw her at 6 pm. Lily, too, stayed out and I did things. Fun things, housework things, banking things, lying down things, standing up things, alone things. I later sat in the yard having an afternoon drink with my neighbor while we watched our children ride bikes and scooters up and down the drive. A family of friends who were walking by on their way to the train station, continuing on to the airport and a European vacation, stopped for a quick beer. I promised to check in on their house and their visitors. (They were doing a house trade with a family in France.)
I felt the village forming around me. I always see in my mind a Native American or African tribe of my imagining with huts configured in a circle, women working and tending to their children, men hunting and gathering, doing what they do. It is an image that comforts me, though it lives in my fantasy and is not drawn from any particular group or tribe. It's just what I want. The houses in my neighborhood are close enough for my children, young as they are, to walk from our home to a friend's without my being nervous. In the nearly two years we have lived here, we have amassed a small tribe of families to whom I would entrust my children, my home, our pet (Baby Dragon, the newt). There is a wonderful exchange of childcare, babysitting, dinners, evening cocktails, and conversations that gives me peace. The girls have learned to respect and consider other adults (and children too) and other ways in which families live and households are run. But as important, I have learned to trust, to fall into the arms of people who want to love and support me, who would allow me to love and support them, who have helped me give and receive in equal measure despite myself.
The village that we have chosen to call home has given me a place in the circle. The people we have added to our circle have given me no corners to be pushed into and no walls to hide behind. I am grateful for the connections and the community. When the nights are insufferable and days or weeks alone threaten my sanity, my village comes to my aid. It takes a village to raise a child. This one has raised up my family too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The next evening, antibiotics in hand for the raging ear infection that was plaguing my girl, we tried again. Lily on my right and Virginie on my left. Everyone tucked in and medicated or whatever was needed to allow a comfortable night's sleep and healing. We made it to 3 AM. At 3 AM, Virginie started wheezing as if she'd swallowed a balloon. She could not seem to take a full breath without this full, croupy cough taking over her tiny body. She would cough and tremble and cry, all while trying to fall back to sleep. I offered her inhaler every fifteen minutes until she could breath easier. Unfortunately, her coughing woke Lily who began pulling at one of her ears, coughing herself, and complaining of pain. For her there were pain killers and a back rub. In fact, with each one sandwiching me into the middle of the bed, I rubbed and patted them, arms outstretched, until 5 AM when I heard the last labored breath subside to soft, even whistles. Then I slept.
I've spent countless nights alone with the girls and most nights they are well, though often chatty and wake in the night. When they are sick or scared or in need, I am available for them too, will take care of what needs caring for until it is right. The good days greatly surpass the bad, but the bad ones fuel the fuzzy-brained, rain-clouded, barbed-wire pressured, and angst-filled stories of parenthood. Those nights leave me feeling so low and lonely, mostly because I am sleep deprived and insane (JEG, you know who you are), like I don't have a prayer or a hand or a friend.
This morning, my neighbor offered to take the girls for a while to play with her children. She and her husband had run their errands and handled their business and knew that I was alone for the long, holiday weekend with the girls. I tried to bow out, excuse myself, convince her that it wasn't necessary, that the girls were fine with crazy me. Though I have longed for a community, a tribe, a village to help me raise my children, I don't think I ever considered what I was really asking for. It wasn't something mythic, epic, poetic, romantic. It wasn't only a dream or an expression used in speeches when children had again been marginalized or ignored. For me, it was having someone that I trusted and that I knew cared for me and my children, take them for a bit. Nurture them. Feed them. Play with them. Entertain them. So that I might have a moment to regenerate, take a shower without a guest lecturer present, hell use the bathroom without having a conversation about only God knows what with a person sitting one foot in front of me. On the floor.
I let the girls go for a bit when a friend called requesting Virginie, the four year old. My friend's four year old was down for a full afternoon of play that involved multiple costume changes, a bath, coloring, a trip to the pool, all the cool stuff the pre-K set is into. She went. She stayed. I saw her at 6 pm. Lily, too, stayed out and I did things. Fun things, housework things, banking things, lying down things, standing up things, alone things. I later sat in the yard having an afternoon drink with my neighbor while we watched our children ride bikes and scooters up and down the drive. A family of friends who were walking by on their way to the train station, continuing on to the airport and a European vacation, stopped for a quick beer. I promised to check in on their house and their visitors. (They were doing a house trade with a family in France.)
I felt the village forming around me. I always see in my mind a Native American or African tribe of my imagining with huts configured in a circle, women working and tending to their children, men hunting and gathering, doing what they do. It is an image that comforts me, though it lives in my fantasy and is not drawn from any particular group or tribe. It's just what I want. The houses in my neighborhood are close enough for my children, young as they are, to walk from our home to a friend's without my being nervous. In the nearly two years we have lived here, we have amassed a small tribe of families to whom I would entrust my children, my home, our pet (Baby Dragon, the newt). There is a wonderful exchange of childcare, babysitting, dinners, evening cocktails, and conversations that gives me peace. The girls have learned to respect and consider other adults (and children too) and other ways in which families live and households are run. But as important, I have learned to trust, to fall into the arms of people who want to love and support me, who would allow me to love and support them, who have helped me give and receive in equal measure despite myself.
The village that we have chosen to call home has given me a place in the circle. The people we have added to our circle have given me no corners to be pushed into and no walls to hide behind. I am grateful for the connections and the community. When the nights are insufferable and days or weeks alone threaten my sanity, my village comes to my aid. It takes a village to raise a child. This one has raised up my family too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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